All Sales Fatal by Laura Disilverio

crept up to me and skimmed me time and again, and I kept my head lowered, my hood up, and my sunglasses on, hoping I looked more like a neighbor out for a little exercise before dinner than the Unabomber on arecce mission. I approached the snug house. No stray beam of light in the windows betrayed a flashlight inside, no hint of movement suggested Grandpa was there. Still, I had to warn him, if I could. Hesitating only a moment, I walked up to the front door and knocked, for all the world like I was an expected guest. Not surprisingly, no one answered. Reluctant to holler his name or make myself suspicious by peering into windows, I knocked again, using a three-short, three-long, three-short pattern, Morse code for SOS. If Grandpa were there, he’d get the message.
    I started back down the sidewalk, speeding up as another car turned the corner. It had a familiar profile, identifiable even from several blocks away. A squad car. I quickened my step. Struggling to keep my pace even, so my limp wouldn’t be obvious, I resisted the urge to turn and see what was happening. My muscles contracted as I tensed, afraid to hear the sounds that would signal Grandpa Atherton had been discovered: the whoop of a siren, a yell of “Stop! Police!” or the thuds of running footsteps. None of those sounds had reached me by the time I crossed to the street where I’d parked the Miata.
    My car gleamed a dull bronze under the light from a streetlamp that had sprung to life while I was gone. I bent to unlock the door. A skritch sound made me whip around.
    “Boo!”
    I jumped back, clanging my elbow against the side mirror. It took a split second to realize that the black-clad figure standing there, a huge grin lighting his face, was Grandpa. The relief and the scare, not to mention the stinging pain from my funny bone, made me mad. Rubbing my elbow, I said, “‘Boo’? What do you think this is? Middle school?”
    “Sorry, Emma-Joy,” he said sheepishly. “Thanks for warning me. I got clear through a back window just as the police were coming in the front door. A neighbor must havespotted me going in and called them. Damn, I’m losing my touch.” He looked chagrined.
    “You’re not losing it, Grandpa. The police were there because Woskowicz’s body turned up. He’s dead.”
    Grandpa let out a nearly soundless whistle. “Where? Who did it?”
    I shot him a look. “What makes you think he was murdered?”
    He shrugged, bony shoulders hunching under the black sweatshirt. “I’ve met the man, remember?”
    “What… he had ‘murderee’ stamped on his forehead in invisible ink?”
    “More or less,” Grandpa said, unperturbed by my sarcasm. “I’m sorry I worried you, Emma-Joy.”
    “Hmph.” I refused to admit I’d been worried and had already been rehearsing how I’d tell Mom he’d gotten arrested. The fact that I’d goaded him into it—not that he’d needed much nudging—only made it worse. “What did you fi—never mind. Let’s talk back at my house. Want a lift to your car?”
    “No thanks. I’ll meet you there.” With a wave of his gloved hand, Grandpa melted into the darkness.
    In my kitchen, clutching a mug of hot tea doctored with a healthy shot of bourbon, Grandpa stroked Fubar, who had deigned to leap onto his lap.
    “Stupid cat,” I said. “Why won’t you ever cuddle with me?” Giving me a look that said he couldn’t risk his reputation by getting friendly with just anyone, Fubar sprang down and nosed the catnip-filled mouse that had gotten wedged partially under the refrigerator. Deciding it was not as lively as the real thing, he pushed through the cat door and disappeared, stubby tail held high.
    I topped off Grandpa’s mug with hot water from the kettle and settled in the chair across from him as he tried to brush off the rust-colored hairs that peppered his black sweat suit.
    “So, what did you find?” I asked.
    He tented his upper lip and blew on the tea. “What I didn’t find is more